this story has no ending
by firedancer
Summary: pg for prostitution, implied sexual activity, and poetic randomness. pre-rent, m/r. when the world makes you want to be a part of it again, how do you spread that feeling?


"When I lose my sleep, it's you I miss. . . And time is running out, and you know so well It may never be." -Sondre Lerche, "You Know So Well"  
  
author's note: written for Liss for a Secret Santa present. of course, i waited until the deadline to send it in. it's no fun unless you start to panic, ne? any e-mail feedback sent to: morgan_giles1@eku.edu  
  
this story has no ending by morgan giles  
  
A frail boy lies shivering in his bed, little more than a mattress on the floor, illuminated by a pale sliver of moonlight. The fever has cleared and left him alone in the bare loft with echoes of the memories he cannot bear to leave yet. These are images of friends that have come and gone. Lovers who left in the night with barely more than a note and a look back as the door closed. Photographs show scenes frozen in shades of black and white, detailing the exploits of those who used to pose for the camera. Smiling faces, glowing with love, something now foreign.  
  
Outside, the snow falls quietly, transforming the scenery into a new landscape. Inside, time has frozen and a change is taking place. Layers of clothing are being slipped on, each one carrying a scent and a flashback that Mark doesn't want to think about. The still stained t-shirt from the night when he met Jude . . . the sweater from when he and Jennifer sat by that unfeeling grave and watched the night pass until the daylight revealed the name they hadn't wanted to see . . . the hooded sweatshirt that still carried the distinct scent of midnight margaritas and spice and sweat. A key is being picked up off the concrete floor. An empty bottle of vodka is kicked out of the way. A lock is being turned, and a loft is left to play the background music of the past to itself.  
  
One pair of beat-up, black Chuck Taylors is hitting the ground, the soles slapping softly and melting a patch of new-fallen snow. The city of New York is luminescent tonight; the streetlights hum a gentle tune and cast a yellow glow over the still white snow. The commuters will come soon, turning the streets into a grey slushy wonderland; for now the world still holds wonder for Mark. This is the world that has only been viewed through a thin window, the world that held no promise just hours ago.  
  
This world is now viewed through a thick camera lens, a camera lens that has long been thought useless. It sat silent by the mattress side, waiting for a day that would dawn, brilliant and gleaming enough to remind the cameraman of the high points of living. Mark wasn't sure what had brought about this change; he didn't care. The world was alive and he was part of it. Everything has a glimmer to the edges if he looks hard enough. The storefronts and sidewalks foretell the future with each step he takes; beauty, beauty, beauty, they scream.  
  
The ghosts that haunt his mind cannot keep up with the slight artist as he walks through the streets of his city, making a record of this new day in his life. Mark wants to dance, to scream, to show the world that he is finally living again, instead of making a mockery of breathing. He walks the yellow line that traces its way through the city streets like a wire in a circus, and when he falls off, he climbs back on. In his awakened state, Mark hardly even notices a lonesome figure that carries no glitter around him, leaning against a crumbling brick building. He slows his heart-breaking sobs when he notices the cameraman.  
  
"Hey, pretty boy," the man in the darkness mumbles in a way that he must imagine to be seductive. It sounds to Mark's ears like a young child pretending to be adult. "Wanna take me home tonight?" A shiver runs through the young prostitute and he folds his arms around his chest, hiding the ribs that threaten to cut through the thin, graying t-shirt that barely shields him from the night's wind. The design has flaked off and been replaced with dirt and specks of blood. The tracks that grace his once- strong arms are red and angry; some have started to scar over. His hair is brown with blonde at the jagged tips, and he tucks a long strand behind his bluing ear.  
  
Mark almost walks by. Almost. He shuts off the camera and turns to the figure in the shadows. "Yeah," he replies, quietly. "Come home with me." The young boy purses his lips and picks up his safety-pinned guitar bag from the ground, the snow shaking off as he slings it over his shoulder.  
  
"Don't you want to know how much-?" he asks incredulously as he joins Mark in the streetlight's realm.  
  
Mark shakes his head and smiles. "The rent's $710 a month and there's only one bed. We can work something out if you don't want to. I don't care what you do as long as it's not this. There's not much food to go around, but I always can make do. Come home with me," he pleads. He holds in his breath as the boy twists the idea around in his mind. The prostitute could be beautiful in the right light, Mark imagines. He sees a halo surrounding the crown of the guitarist's head, and time finally unfreezes itself.  
  
"My name's Roger," the street angel whispers. A small smile creeps onto his solemn face. "Which way's home?" Mark takes his hand and together they begin the walk to the loft, the cold night a little brighter for both.  
  
The snow continues to curtain everything with a new finish, the icing to cover the ugly parts of the cake. The world holds a new promise for the two young men. The moon guides them with her silvery hands back to the chilly mattress where their story began, and where a new story is beginning tonight. Theirs is a tale that fate's been waiting to unfold for years now. 


End file.
